


The Darker Edge of Dawn

by ObliObla



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Demons, Gen, Imaginary Friends, Inspired by Twitter, Mental Health Issues, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 00:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16608236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: He's always been there, in the corner of my eye. When I was little, I knew his name.But I can't remember it anymore.





	The Darker Edge of Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first posted original work. I might put up more if anyone seems interested.
> 
> I hope you like it!

He’s always been there, in the corner of my eye. When I was little—I’m eight now, that’s _not_ little—I knew his name. But I can’t remember it anymore.

He used to stand on the big shelf in our old house. He was only little too, barely more than an imp, but he watched over my dreams and sometimes, when mommy and daddy were fighting, he’d hold my hand with his little wrinkled one. And he wouldn’t even scratch me with his claws.

But we’re in the new house now, and daddy says I’m too old for imaginary friends— _he wasn’t imaginary_ , I wanna say, but I didn’t like that doctor they made me talk to. His office smelled like cats and cigarette smoke and he made me look at weird pictures I didn’t like. The new house is nicer, I guess, but the fireplace is _electric_ , so he doesn’t have anywhere to live anymore. At least, I hope that’s why he hasn’t come to see me. I miss him a lot. I hope he’s not mad.

Mommy’s friend who she forgot her name got mad at her, so I hope he understands that it’s just that I was little and that’s why I don’t remember. It’s not because he isn’t my friend anymore. He’s my _best_ friend and he always will be. None of the kids at school will ever be as good.

I tried to call him last night. I know I’m not supposed to go outside in the dark, but demons don’t have phones, so I had to. I tore all the pages out of the unicorn princess diary that Auntie Jeanie got me and I borrowed daddy’s lighter. But the papers blew away and the little fire wasn’t anything like what he was used to. I’m sure that’s why he didn’t come. But I can’t try again now. I don’t think mommy will believe that Lucky tore up _two_ of the diaries Auntie Jeanie got me.

Maybe we’ll move again soon. This house is too new and the neighborhood’s all fancy. I hope we do. I miss him a lot; there’s nobody to hide with me when all the fighting starts again. I know I’m not little anymore, but he said he’d always protect me. I’ll never be too big to need _that_.

*   *   *

Dad left last night.

For good, I think, this time. They’ve been whispering _divorce_ like it’s a really bad word. Like I’m not in middle school now; I’m twelve, I know all the bad words. They didn’t think I knew what was going on, what’s been going on for years.

The screaming was bad; the quiet is worse. Mom’s crying, still, in her room, and I wanna help her, but she said almost as many awful things as Dad did. So instead, I’m standing outside, where I can’t hear her. That’s mean, probably, but I can’t…

_Anyway_ , I’m standing out here in the cold with a stack of old math homework—C’s mostly, I’m really bad at showing my work—and my own lighter, this time. Mac at school, with the army jacket          full of cigarettes he stole from his brother, sold me it in exchange for me rewriting his English essay.

It’s been years since I really believed he was real, but… I’ll try anything, now. Nothing but his little clawed hands and the fire in his eyes ever made me feel better when they were fighting. So I lean down, make a tent shape with some twigs like my uncle taught me last summer, ball up some paper to put in the middle and dump a little rum on it from the cabinet I’m not supposed to know about. The flames catch and I add some more wood. The fire warms my hands up a bit and I close my eyes, feeling silly.

_I miss you,_ I think. _I felt safe with you and nothing feels safe anymore. Please, just…_

I don’t know when I started crying, but my eyes sting bad and my cheeks start freezing from all the tears. I blink to clear my eyes and, for a second, I think I see something. A shadow, not made by anything, but then sudden rain hisses my little fire out, and there’s nothing. My teeth chatter, so I go back inside. I guess I could try again tomorrow, but maybe I should just accept that no imaginary friend’s gonna come save an almost teenager who doesn’t even believe in him anyway. I’ll just have to figure it out on my own, like I always do.

*   *   *

I didn’t know heartache would be so literal. I want to let myself feel it—it’d make real angsty poetry, if nothing else—but I’m all out of tears and my face is burning and it’s so much easier to just think about something else. Anything else.

Or, I wish it was easy, but it’s actually really hard. So I’m digging through my little filling cabinet with all my old homework—my phone and laptop are too dangerous to mess with right now—hoping there’s something interesting in here. I dig up some inane writing exercise from, like, first grade. At least, I think Mrs. Johnson was first grade; my memory’s kinda sketchy, honestly. It’s pretty boring, but it’s crumpled up in a way that makes me think I pulled it out of the trash which is… interesting. There’s nothing cool on the front, so I flip the paper over; apparently I did a drawing on the back and… _oh_. _That’s_ why it got tossed.

I managed to forget all about my demon imaginary friend, what was his name? But anyway, even though he’s pretty badly detailed out in crayon, his flaming eyes and little black horns are clear. He’s standing on the mantelpiece in the old house making that blank, sorta hostile expression that freaked my parents right the fuck out when I tried to imitate it. I think this is actually the picture that put me in therapy the first time. They thought I was schizophrenic, or something, so I started pretending I didn’t think he was real and then, I guess, I ended up believing it.

Thank God they never knew about the fires—not that I ever destroyed anything important, but parents probably don’t react well when their eight year old kid’s burning paper in the backyard, trying to summon a demon.

Although, that gives me an idea. Not demon summoning; I haven’t thought he was real for years, but…

I gather up the class-passed notes with little x’s and inside jokes that aren’t funny anymore, with a few drafts of poems and movie ticket stubs and a fast food napkin with a lipstick kiss and all the other painful evidence of… _her—_ and the little bottle of cheap vodka I keep under my bed—and I sneak downstairs. I’m not _not_ supposed to go anywhere, but I really don’t want to deal with my stepdad right now. Plus, the alcohol might be a problem.

It’s not the same lighter I had four years ago, but I’m still buying BICs because of McLaughlin—who’s on his third stint in juvie last I heard. The fire burns well, if a little acrid from the plastic, but I don’t bother _praying_ , or whatever it was I did last time. I think I asked for help, but I don’t do _that_ anymore. So instead, I light a cigarette off the flames and stare at the disappearing evidence of a year’s relationship—which is a hell of a long time when you’re sixteen—and pretend that it’s purifying my soul in fire, and not just reducing my composure to ash.

*   *   *

There’s something vaguely familiar about him.

He’s sitting on a corner stool, smoking—which is probably illegal—and nursing the straight whiskey I poured him. His dark, sparkling eyes are fixed on the football game on the TV, but something tells me he’s not catching a word. He’s pretty in a dangerous way that makes me want to make bad decisions. It’s only my boss’s distinctive shriek of annoyance that draws me from my musings and back to mixing drinks and smiling blankly on the off-chance I might get a decent tip, for once.

The remaining two hours of my shift slog by. He still hasn’t left and my interest has shifted to wariness. He’s still on the same drink, still staring vacantly at the TV—just showing highlights from last year’s college games—which, at this point, no one else is paying even the slightest amount of attention to.

He’s waiting for… _something_ and, whatever it is, it’s bad news.

I duck into the back to do some last minute inventory before I clock out. When I come back to the bar, he’s gone and I’m relieved—I _am_ —but some part of me is almost disappointed. I shake my head, go out the side door and press my aching back against the alley bricks. I light my cigarette—more to warm my fingers than to taste—and breathe out a great cloud of smoke and fog.

“I’ve missed you.” His voice is gentler than I’d expected.

“Look,” I _was_ tempted, but he seems legit sketchy, and I live alone, “you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”

“I haven’t.” His expression is blank and a little hostile.

“I… I don’t even know who you are,” but even I don’t believe _that_. Not now.

“Don’t you?” And his eyes are flame, his little horns sticking up through thick black hair. He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a cigarette with long, elegant fingers tipped with deadly sharp claws. He hums, “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

And the absurdity of that statement makes me want to laugh, but I hold it back. “Well, I grew up. I’m not… _little_ anymore.”

He frowns. “No, it’s not that. Your soul has… _dimmed_.”

“You left me,” and I might as well be a child again, the pain is suddenly so fresh, so… _immediate_ , “alone and afraid and I… I tried to call you, but you never—”

“You never called my name.” His voice is low, but not reproachful. He steps closer; the ground shakes almost imperceptibly and I’m abruptly awash in heat. I realize now that I really should be terrified.

“I… forgot.”

I have no excuses, but he’s not looking for any. “I know and I’m… _sorry_. You weren’t _intended_ to remember. Any of it, actually.”

“You made me forget?”

“No!” Desperation is strange on his face; he shakes his head. “I didn’t _want_ to leave, but those were the rules.”

I cling to the only thing that makes any sense, “Those _were_ the rules?”

“There’s been a… change in management.”

I blink. “In… Hell?” He nods. Some part of me was still hoping I’d been wrong about that. “So, you really are a demon?”

“Of course,” he makes a little regal bow, “Gusion, former Duke of Hell, at your service.” He stills, stares at the ground, says under his breath, “Don’t be afraid, _please._ ”

And, a little surprisingly, honestly, I’m not. “How could I be? You’re my friend.”

He looks back at me sharply; there’s still a little pain in his eyes, but he’s smiling wide enough I can see his pointy white teeth. “The… _best_ of friends?”

“Always,” I put my hand out automatically, but I freeze halfway through the motion; it’s been a long time, after all. But he reaches out too—his hand may not be small and wrinkly anymore, but it’s solid and warm and still feels more like safety than anything else ever has. “Do you,” I watch our clasped hands, “Do you have to leave again?”

His fingers tighten around mine, carefully. “Never. Not if you don’t want me to.” We settle against the wall together. He looks down at his unlit cigarette, then over at my still burning one. “May I… _share_ your fire?” he asks, soft and solemn. His tone confuses me, but then I remember: fire is his home… is _ours_.

“Please.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a thread I saw over on twitter.
> 
> Come say hi on twitter or tumblr if you want to! @obliobla


End file.
